


It's all over for me- I might need it to be

by luxuries



Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [10]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Blood and Violence, Coping? What's That?, Emphasis on the Bad, Gen, Gore, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nathan Wesninski's Bad Parenting, Neil Josten is Not Fine, Running Away, Trauma, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuries/pseuds/luxuries
Summary: It's him; it's his father. The video is grainy, the sound fizzes with bad quality. But it's there, and it's clear enough to discern what's happening.Or:The live feed stops showing the game.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947232
Comments: 3
Kudos: 127
Collections: All For The Game random short stories, Whumptober 2020





	It's all over for me- I might need it to be

**Author's Note:**

> No 11. PSYCH 101 Defiance | Struggling | Crying  
> Content warning for violence and gore, brief mention of self harm.

The cheering of the crowd heightens with every pass; every step in the right direction. They can feel the tension, the prospect of a goal. Neil thrives under it. All the eyes on him as he does something he can be _proud_ of. Does everything his mother would have hated. Something his father can't ever take from him. Likes the feeling when he turns around and see's Andrew's half smile, the challenging glint in his eyes. Kevin's fist pump and Matt's bear hug as the scoreboard lights up in their favor. It's exhilarating. 

Other than running for his life, bullets narrowly whizzing past him, this was the only time he felt truly _alive_. Adrenaline cursing through his veins; his lungs heaving for air as he runs from one side of the court to the next. Every line familiar, every dent and crack in the glass perimeter fence mapped out- the stories attached to them.

The court was, and always will be, Neil's home.

So maybe that's why they did it.

Neil is too focused on passing his ball to Kevin, side stepping the other team's back-liner. Too focused on the field. He doesn't notice the sudden hush of the crowd. The unnaturally still mass of people in the stands, eyes cast up at the screens. He doesn't notice- till he does. The other team comes to a standstill, forcing Neil into awareness. Removing his game time bliss, the only thing in his universe the white, stitched ball. It's jarring, confusing. They hadn't even called half time.

Neil looks up, sees what everyone else sees, and wishes he didn't. The T.V displays spread throughout the court mock him from every corner, the loudspeakers blasting the unquestionable sounds that come with being a Wesninski. Pained grunts, metal clanking as Nathan picks his tools, a sharp anguish unlike any other. Neil hadn't mapped out all the exit routes, all the escape plans. He thought he was safe on the court. Thought he was safe with Andrew. He's grown comfortable - stupid.

It's him; it's his father. The video is grainy, the sound fizzes with bad quality. But it's there. And it's clear enough to discern what's happening. 

Neil is on his knees, head roughly tugged backwards by his hair, forcing his face to look directly at the camera. There's blood- so much blood. He's covered in it, looking like a horror movie's makeup team after a particularly gory scene. Neil's desperate, hopeless gaze looks somewhere far off. There's fresh blood traveling down his brow, a shallow cut on his forehead oozing non stop with every beat of his heart. It inches towards his right eye, forcing it closed. His cheeks are a mess. One side burnt like a child's art piece, all weird lines and vague shapes. Yellow and bubbly and Neil didn't know skin could do _that_. The other side's cut wide and long like a lion clawed at his face- unnatural. _Try explaining that one to the hiring manager._ Yeah, not easy. 

As the cleaver saws into his forearm, zig zagging back and forth in a relentless pace, he hears his own screams like a distant siren. Like something harrowing and ominous, familiar. The more you hear it, the less you _hear_ it. Neil blocked his own screams out, eventually. Figured he must have ruptured his eardrums, must have screamed himself bloody. How did his father do it? Did he wear earbuds as he got to work? Neil must have been a special case, of course Nathan would want to hear his own son's suffering. Neil can't remember the pain, only the emotional anguish as his own father bounced with excitement. A schoolchild dissecting a cow's heart. The smell and the redness is all there, but they don't quite connect the two. Cutting into all the crevices, curious. Painful. Neil pats his arm down thoughtlessly, making sure it's still attached. Wondering if he survived. 

He's here; and he's more aware of the moment then he ever was stuck in that cellar, that torture chamber. His own personal hell. Forced to reconcile. 

He can't take his eyes off of his own shaking form, can't stop watching his devastation as he unravels with every drop. The cut-off plea's, the pitiful tears cutting lines in his once pale skin. Dusted brown in dust, in old blood. In human remains. His father tells him something, but it's too far off to be understood. The Neil on the screen heard it, however. Loud and clear. Neil can't, for the life of him, remember what was said.

But he does remember the smiling. The glint of his teeth, specks of blood like Allison's firebrick red lipstick a warring contrast to the bleached pink of his gums. He hears his laughing; his guttural, hyena-esque laughter. Feral, exhilarated. The coughing, choking sound as he's punched, the 'splat' as he spits blood onto the cement floor.

Neil looks away then, it suddenly becomes too much. Crashes over him in waves; drags him to places he doesn't want to be. He can't escape the laughing. He yanks off his helmet- not caring if people see him now, not caring that he's smiling again, tight lipped and all crooked, and he must look deranged. Insane. That demented version of him, that piece of Nathaniel he never shed. The piece of him that's, admittedly, kept him alive.

The FBI didn't think he would hear them discussing his case; discussing Neil's extraction. He did. He heard how people saw him, what words they used to describe him. How much he looked like his father. How he howled in joy when his father's brain matter splattered over his face. How he couldn't stop giggling till he passed out. How he pushed his fingertips into his wounds, reopening and bursting them in a wild attempt to feel _something_. The tremble in his hands- usually heart surgeon steady- visible for all to see. His gaze finicky, watching a for a million things at once. Preparing his body for more horror, assuming the worst from everyone.

He's his father's son, through and through. 

He doesn't hear Andrew's approach; palms clasped tightly against his ears, eyes downcast in a futile attempt to pretend that this wasn't happening. The laughter, impossibly, isn't hindered- his dad joins in, they have the same throaty laugh. Flat and hoarse. Vicious. 

A hand waves in front of his eyes. 

A man, his friend, his friend, stands in front of him. He looks mad, so mad. Neil wants to shrink under the scrutiny, wants him to stop being mad. 

He's afraid of his own friend, his family-

And Andrew must see it too, because he steps back. His fists clench and unclench, his arms shake lightly with unshed rage. 

Neil doesn't know what to do- doesn't want to face Andrew anymore. Face his pity and anger and guilt. Neil turns around, but finds Matt instead- looking at him in a similar manner. Sees the other foxes in the corner of his eye, shellshocked. 

Neil does what he's always been told, trained to do.

He runs. 

He just- he just needs to _get out._ Needs this to _stop_. Pretend he doesn't hear his own crazed screaming, his fathers mocking tone as he reaches bone. Wishes the hallways weren't also covered in loud speakers.

He runs till he can't hear it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback always appreciated !!!! let me know how i can improve, if i need to fix any mistakes. stay safe.   
> title song from do you need me by lewis del mar. I love this song so much please give it a listen, promise it won't disappoint!


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